


For a bridgeman, he does have pretty eyes

by Languish_Locked_in_L



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: AU - Lymond in Stormlight Archive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 17:20:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14919620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languish_Locked_in_L/pseuds/Languish_Locked_in_L
Summary: Scotswap for @bellaroles“Prompt for an AU Lymond as Kaladin from the stormlight's archive. For one day. Well they both have survivor guilt so why not? I don't know how to do this since I can't write a fic coherently if I try.”





	For a bridgeman, he does have pretty eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Please be gentle and forgive me in advance! This is the first fic I’ve ever written, and I’ve been so busy I had to rush this out the day before Scotswap was due—and honestly I don’t know what I’m doing. The prompt was for a Stormlight AU where Lymond was Kaladin. I’m currently listening to the the Stormlight audiobooks and wow it was disorientating (yet strangely fun) trying to put Francis in there!  
> I didn’t even try to mimic Dunnett’s writing, so… sorry.  
> As you can probably tell, the story isn’t finished yet… sorry again.
> 
> (Also, I wrote this without the aide of either the Stormlight books or the Lymond Chronicles, and too little time to research, so if I've messed up the spelling of things, again... sorry!)

Syl transformed herself into a ribbon of light and danced high above the plateau, watching the bridgemen jog with that mass of wood on their shoulders. Watching one in particular. He was easy to track: at the front, with that shock of blond hair.

Even from this height she could read the set of his shoulders, the focused _intensity_ he was applying to the stone ground and rockbuds that fled at the slap of his sandals.

More of his men were going to die. That’s what he was thinking, Syl could tell. No matter what he showed the world, she could see right through him. He blamed himself. He _always_ blamed himself. Once again she found herself wishing that he could just be happy. But it was why she’d chosen him, wasn’t it? He _cared_.

The thought made her zip down, transforming into the shape of a young woman as she lit on his arm. It was bare to the shoulder, tanned, and unappealingly sweaty. She made a face. “Francis,” she said, so only he could hear, “you can stop frowning now. No one died today.” She tried to make her voice bright, hopeful. “And the men trust you now. They’re working together. It’s _amazing_. And you did that. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

He said something under his breath, in Azish she thought. She didn’t understand but from his tone it was sarcastic and probably terrible. Syl rolled her eyes, dramatically, just to be sure he noticed.

“I wish for once you’d speak in alethi like ordinary people,” she said primly.

He continued the pace, jogging, and didn’t so much as glance at her. “I said, there’s no such thing as pure pleasure; some anxiety always goes with it. You see? I mock my own foibles. My self awareness is growing. Praise me, Syl. I know it’s why you came down here.”

Storms, he could be annoying. Syl kicked his ear, which given she was a spren and immaterial did little more than inflict a light sting. He didn’t even have the grace to wince. “You watch yourself, Francis Crawford. Or I might put blackbane in your water.”

At that his mouth quirked—he always did have a black sense of humor—and his gaze flashed up, _very briefly_.

It always took people by surprise to see a light eyed slave, but he was pure Iriali—no Alethi in his blood. In Iri’s warm western climate, blond hair and light eyes were common.

His were clear blue, far nicer than any Alethi eyes she’d seen. Like the soft fronds on knapweed stems when they came out after a highstorm.

Cornflowers, she’d heard knapweed called by some of Sadeas’s Ardents. Cornflower blue eyes. She’d have to tell Francis how pretty they were. He’d _hate_ it.

 

* * *

 

 

Back at Sadeas’s war camp, Syl flitted around Francis’s head as he checked the bandages of the wounded from yesterday’s bridge run. Lem’s broken arm wasn’t set right and Francis fussed over that for a time, then he wrapped it again, chatting with the men, smiling easily, drawing even the unwounded into his circle until the entirety of bridge four was crowded in the room, eyes shinning and laughing at each other’s jokes.

“Thank you, Lymond, sir,” Dan said, as Francis finished rewrapping his thigh with the last of the bandages. Syl grinned when Dan gave the two handed bridgemen salute the men had come up with. The rest of the men cursed good naturedly when Francis announced they had chasm duty the next morning, but saluted just as eagerly as Dan when Francis left. 

As soon as they were out of sight of the bridgemen his stride lengthened. Syl spun in the air, laughing as she followed Francis outside. “It’s almost like you’re real soldiers. Things are going to get better, I can feel it.” She landed on his shoulder and crossed her legs in a dainty pose. “Now ask me what I think of your eyes.”

He walked faster. The good humor had vanished, she realized. She tilted her heard. “Wow, I can actually _hear_ your teeth grinding. That’s impressive.”

He ignored her in favor of the stone under his feet. It was annoyingly difficult to read him when he kept his eyes down. At the next intersection he swiveled on his heel, taking a sharp right, then said in such an airy voice that she knew he was mocking her: “A _real_ soldier. What gave it away? Was it the sack-like clothing? The proscription against weapons?Or maybe it’s the slave brand. Such a soldierly mark. Despite your romantic fancies, an inadequate supply of bandages and knobweed sap doesn’t change a thing.”

Syl fought the urge to kick him again. “Maybe not. But do you know what is changing things? _You_. You’re changing everything, Francis. Lymond. Sir. O Captain my Captain.”

To her immense satisfaction she could practically feel his irritation, like it was a gas leaking from his pores. She sniffed his neck and he swipped at her. “People near me have the unfortunate habit of ending up dead. Dan has rot spren around his thigh. Lem is going to end up losing the use of that arm without surgery and a plate to set the bone, but how can I perform surgery without any tools—let alone knobweed to keep out the rot spren… Damnation, Syl, I am not what you think I am.”

“Oh, and what’s that? A bad-tempered chull? You try, Francis. You _care_. Sometimes that’s enough.”

He ignored her in a pointed way then stopped at a crossroads to gaze across the paths toward a line of stone barracks on the opposite side. Syl followed his eyes and found Gaz, the one-eyed bridge crew sergeant, sitting at a beat up table outside and playing a game of cards with three other soldiers.

“Oh look, he’s digging himself in a deeper hole,” she said brightly. 

“I need you to follow him, Syl. Gaz is up to something… this chasm duty tomorrow… I don’t trust it.”

“Because you’re so full of trust and faith in humanity.”

Normally that would provoke a wry comment, or at the least a grim laugh, but this time he just watched Gaz narrowly and didn’t react to her sarcasm. “Follow him tonight, would you? I want to know what that bastard is up to.”

 

* * *

 

 

Syl returned to the bridgemen’s barracks at dawn to find Francis already awake and checking the wounded. She was about fly over and tell him about her wasted night watching Gaz gamble away spheres he didn’t have when she noticed Lem, pale and sleeping on the cot. His arm was freshly bandaged. She zipped closer, peering at the bandaged arm resting on top of the blanket. She was sure it was straighter. And there were no rot spren in sight.

She turned into a streamer of light and zipped to Francis’s shoulder. He was rubbing salve on Dan’s thigh. Even as she watched the rot spren fled.

“You got more supplies!” she exclaimed.

He glanced up and smiled faintly. “They’ll be okay now.”

“If I were human I would _hug_ you!” Syl laughed, turning into a girl and spinning in the air. “How did you do it? I thought you’d used all the spheres?”

A few of the men had some saved.” He wrapped Dan’s thigh in a new bandage. “You’ll be good as new in a couple weeks,” he said, patting the bridgeman’s shoulder as he rose.

Dan grinned. “Thank you, sir. I feel better already, I’m sure in a couple days I could—”

“No standing for a week,” Francis interrupted. “That’s an order.”

“Yes, sir.” Dan’s grin widened, as if being ordered about was somehow an honor _._

Syl tilted her head, studying the bridgeman and trying to figure that one out.“Humans are weird,” she said. “Why does he _want_ to be told what to do?”

Francis rose, speaking quietly to Syl as he stepped outside, “Sometimes it’s comforting to have decisions made for you, if you trust the one making those decisions. The trick is being someone worthy of trust…”

 

* * *

 

 

Two weeks later Dan’s leg had healed enough that he could join the crew on a bridge run. Another three men were injured during the plateau assault but Francis got to them in time and no one died. Medical supplies didn’t seem to be an issue anymore. He had bandages, knobweed, a small collection of surgical tools… he even managed to provide food for the injured men without cutting it from the other men’s rations.

It took Syl another week to wonder about that. To wonder why Francis had her following Gaz every other night when the man did nothing more suspicious than lose at cards.

 

* * *

 

 

“I need you to follow Gaz again tonight,” Francis told her two days later. He finished spooning the slop they called food into his mouth, washing it down with a cup of water and grimacing. “See if you can figure out who he owes money to.”

Syl hovered in the air in front of him and crossed her arms. “And _what_ are you planning to do? Buy more medical supplies with your nonexistent spheres?”

“I’m planning to try and get some sleep?” He shrugged in such a natural way she wondered if she were imagining the entire thing.

She huffed. “Fine, I’ll go. But I really don’t see the point.”

“Any information you get could be useful.” He paused. “On second thought, maybe I should have you spy on Sadeas. That might lead to something interesting…”

“ _Spy_? What do you think I am, a Cryptic? I’ll find Gaz. That’s it. Then you’d better tell me what’s _really_ going on.”

“What’s really going on is I’m going to bed.” He got up, washed his bowl in the basin outside, then headed straight for his cot. “Goodnight, Syl. I’ll see you at sunrise.”

Syl snorted. It was a sound she’d heard a scribe in the war camp make about a different, but no less irritating, man. It seemed fitting at the moment. Then giving Francis one last suspicious glance, she zipped away.

It only took a few minutes to find Gaz. He was at his usual table, playing his usual after dinner game of cards. She stayed for less than five minutes before streaking back to bridge four’s barracks. She had told Francis she’d _find_ Gaz, not that she’d stay with him all night.

Outside the barracks it was less than ten minutes before the door opened and a yellow head appeared. She _knew_ it! He was up to something. Something bad, disreputable, and probably dangerous—or why would he have sent her away?

Syl took to the air, flitting above the camp’s network of paths, keeping the weaving yellow head always in her sights. He was striding toward the middle of the war camp, toward the quarters of the light eyed officers.

Syl turned into a ribbon of light, appearing as just another wind spren in case he looked up and noticed her. There was no doubt, she had a more important quarry than Gaz tonight.


End file.
